David Silva - The Disappeared

Teri checked her rearview mirror.

“Mom?”

“Hold on,” she said.

Walt hung up the phone, uneasy with the knowledge that whoever was after Teri, they were obviously sophisticated and very well-funded. He didn’t care much for the implications of that thought. There was a chance—a good chance, in fact—that he might be getting in over his head. Though he tried to remind himself that chance was a two-headed coin. The fact that they were sophisticated at least narrowed down some of the suspects.

All this whirled around in his head like a wind storm shifting the sands, and eventually he fluffed up the pillows and settled back for a short nap.

With the nap, came the dream.

“ Write your name, Mr. Travis.”

Walt looked up from his desk. He was in the first row, second to last seat, farthest from the window that looked out across the school yard. Someone had carved the initials W.T. into the desktop, and circled it with a black permanent marker. It was not a nice thing to have done.

“ Huh?”

The teacher, who was a man of about forty and stood almost as tall as the top of the chalkboard, held out a piece of white chalk. His eyes were red embers, his brow creased and stern. He was a familiar man, and Walt thought if he resembled anyone it would be his father.

“ You heard me, young man. Come up to the chalkboard and write your name.”

The rest of the class all turned in their seats and waited to see what he would do.

“ But…”

“ Now, young man.”

“ I…”

The teacher glared at him a moment, an if-looks-could-kill kind of glare. Then suddenly he slammed the palm of his hand against the board. It made a huge, terrifying noise, sharp and jarring. A cloud of chalk dust swirled madly into the air.

“ Now!”

Walt climbed out of his seat, his legs rubbery beneath him. He passed through a row of strange faces, girls and boys that he couldn’t remember having ever met before. Distrustfully, he took the chalk that was presented him.

“ Your name, Mr. Travis. On the board. Fifty times, if you will.”

He looked from the chalk to the huge, empty board that towered over him like a mountain waiting to be climbed. Slowly he began to write: JEFF NEWCOMER.

Giggles erupted from behind him.

“ That’s not your name, Mr. Travis.”

“ Yes—”

“ That’s not your name!” A ruler slammed across his buttocks, nearly standing him as high as the teacher’s chin. “Now do it right!”

R-A-Y-M-O-N-D.

“ That’s not right!”

Another slap across his back side.

J-O-S-E-P-H.

“ No! That’s not who you are! Do it again!”

S-A-M-U-E-L.

“ No! Again!”

B-E-R-R-Y.

“ No!”

RICHARD BOYLE.

“ Richard Boyle. Now remember that,” the teacher said sternly. “It’s Richard Boyle. That’s your name now. You understand me? It’s yours.”

“ It’s yours!” the class yelled in unison, a sick delightful sound of harmony.

“ It’s yours! It’s yours!”

The Shasta Valley Mall came into view up ahead on the right. The main entrance was a block away, hidden between a Carl’s Jr. that had been under construction for several months and a Bank of America branch that had been there for years. Teri didn’t think the black Ford was going to let her get that far.

“Mom…”

“Just hold on.”

She slammed her foot down on the accelerator, and gave the steering wheel a sharp tug to the right. The rear tires squealed, kicking up a cloud of blue smoke, before they finally caught and sent the car into a sideways skid.

The front end jumped the curb.

Teri over-corrected in an effort to keep the car from doing a one-eighty, and ended up making matters worse. The right front fender clipped a street light, sheering it off near the base. The impact as it came crashing down sounded like a wrecking ball taking its first swipe at an old, tired building. She barely heard it, though. The car squealed across the sidewalk, forced its way into the narrow space between a pickup truck and a telephone booth, then suddenly accelerated again. She felt the weight of her body forced backwards into the cushion of her seat. It was everything she could do just to keep her hands on the steering wheel, and suddenly she realized that even that wasn’t going to be enough.

Not this time.

It was going to take more than just holding on.

For a moment, everything seemed to slow down, ticking off the seconds in an irretrievable manner that left no doubt there would be no turning back. The car shimmied and rattled, just missed a planter box, then rammed front-grille first into the side of a parked RV.

Teri felt the steering wheel press against her breasts, and with a shudder the car settled back on its springs and came to an abrupt standstill. The engine continued to race for another ten to fifteen seconds, sounding as if it might explode, then gradually winding down again. Everything turned deathly quiet.

She unstrapped herself from the seat belt. “You all right?”

The boy smiled at her, struggling with his own belt. “That was wicked. Really wicked.”

“I’m glad you enjoyed it,” Teri said, wishing they had time to stop and count their blessings. The boy’s side of the car was bulging inward now, a strange sculpture of metal and plastic that might have been a popular piece if only it had been on display at an art gallery. “We’re going to have to get out on this side.”

She gave the door handle a tug and realized with dread that something wasn’t right. The pull was too easy. There was no resistance. She put her shoulder against the door and tried again, but the result was the same. The door wasn’t going to open.

“Just break out the window,” the boy said.

In the distance, she could see the black Ford coming back across the intersection into the mall parking lot. There wasn’t much time now.

“Mom…”

“I heard you!”

But first, she tried to roll down the window, amazed that she had the presence of mind to even think of such a thing. Like the door handle, though, something inside the trim panel had apparently slipped off its track or had become stripped of its threads. The handle dangled from the shaft, useless.

“Try this.” The boy handed her the small First Aid box from the glove compartment. “It’s metal.”

She stared at it, toying only a moment with the idea before covering her face and slamming one end of the box into the glass. Instantly, it bounced back at her. Left behind was little more than a tiny spider-webbed pattern near the heart of the window.

“Hit it harder.”

“I’m trying.” What scared her more than anything was that she might put her arm through the window and end up cutting herself on the shards of glass. There was that fear, and then there was the fear of being trapped in here.

The Ford had gotten caught in the backup of rubberneckers across the way. Through the windshield, she watched as all four doors open nearly simultaneously. A small group of men climbed out and started across the parking lot in her direction.

Teri took another swing at the window, hit it hard enough to shatter the glass this time, and after that it was only a matter of knocking away the shards from around the edges of the opening. Teri climbed through first. The boy followed close behind, catching his pant leg on the lock, then shaking loose. He fell to the ground head first, wearing half-a-grin, half-a-grimace.